Tag: life

Locking My Bedroom Window

In life we ultimately discover that problems require solutions. However, the solution to all problems are many times perplexing and difficult to uncover.

There are times when I feel like Sherlock Holmes attempting to solve a case. One such mystery has me quite stumped and in the tradition of Dr. Watson I will name this case…The Night Prowler and Mystery Biter.

I assure you my situation is not unique. I have spoken to countless friends and acquaintances that find themselves faced with a similar conundrum and no solution in sight.

After studying many of these puzzling acts, I find myself close to a solution.

It all began when I turned sixty-five. Sure, Social Security was now on the horizon, but I couldn’t seem to find any correlation between my case and the monthly stipend from the government. So no conspiracy theory here.

I continued my investigation.

At first it was intermittent.

A bite here, a pain there. I took little notice thinking it was something that had happened during daylight hours.

Yet after a time I realized the events were occurring closer together and far more often.

I would awaken with a large red itchy mass on my cheek. Or a sharp pain in my rib or even an inability to actually move my arm.

I became more mystified as time went on.

More frequently the first words out of my mouth in the morning were OUCH! What the hell?

Not wanting to overreact to these nighttime attacks on my body, I attempted a reasonable explanation for these occurrences.

Aliens? Not so much. I had heard they probed earthlings through the belly button and nope, no evidence of that anywhere.

Having the hassle of working sans Dr. Watson my theories often came up short.

But I persevered. My determination was inspiring. Not quite certain to whom, but I digress.

First things first. How were these interlopers entering a locked residence in the middle of the night.

Possessing a secure entrance where I must buzz someone inside, it seems rather impossible. But, of course we know that if one is determined nothing is impossible.

The bedroom window I thought. They must be climbing up and sneaking in to beat me. Yet, I     thought I might hear noises if that was the case.

I examined the possibility someone was driving a car through the window at such rapid speed it was like a flash going by in a dream. Too quickly for my eyes to even perceive.

Maybe that dream about participating in the Formula 500 wasn’t a dream after all?

No matter how I tried to imagine a plausible scenario, I couldn’t seem to come up with a viable reason why I awakened in the morning bruised, battered and full of ouchies.

I definitely wasn’t imaging these mystery bruises.

They weren’t there at night, but in the morning, I couldn’t turn my neck. Or my foot hurt, or a big red itchy bump was on my shoulder.

Was I running in my sleep? Who and what was sneaking in at night to beat the hell out of me?

What the heck, was my mattress made of, steel?

It’s not as if old age doesn’t afford you enough aches and pains, at night ghosts, goblins or ghouls are partying on my bed and kicking the hell out of me.

OUCH!

I once hopped out of bed in the morning. Eager to begin a new day. Filled with energy and ambition and tanked up with enough coffee to run a fifty-mile marathon. Okay, maybe not fifty miles.

Now if I simply turn my head to look at the clock it takes five minutes to stop the pain and another ten to turn my head back.

I’m beginning to think it’s not aliens at all. Or teenagers doing wheelies over my entire body with a GTO. I’m beginning to suspect it’s my body punishing me for not working out in college, or after. My body sees young girls with spandex on walking to the gym thinking, serves you right to suffer aches and pains after the way you neglected me.

But who knew?

To us exercise was walking back and forth to school four times a day. Riding our bikes to the drug store or playing dodge ball in a neighbor’s back yard.

It was walking to a friend’s home six blocks away and returning home before the street lights came on.

Running home from school when you got all ‘A’s on your report card.

Walking to the store for a quarter’s worth of penny candy and wax teeth.

Or chasing the Good Humor man down the street. “STOP! I need a Strawberry Shortcake Bar.”

It was going on the bus with a friend to that new giant mall and walking around there all day.

Or swimming in the summer because there was no air conditioning.

I believe that would qualify as exercise.

So why do I feel like I’m in horrible shape?

Why is my body so angry that it wakes up each morning with a chip on its shoulder, a bite or a big huge OUCH!?

We ate healthy, played healthy and there were no video games to keep us glued to a screen. Our feet were our mode of transportation and they worked great. Now it takes me ten visits to the shoe store to find a pair that doesn’t kill my feet.

Ageing is difficult enough when you can actually see the ravages of time. But the ones that are stealth, well that’s totally over the top.

I have to go now so have a great day. I’m setting up a teddy bear nanny cam in my bedroom. I’ll catch those suckers now!

The Smell of Burning Leaves

Each Year I receive requests to reblog this piece in the Autumn. So many love the feelings of nostalgia it evokes. Thank you for sharing these wonderful memories with me. Enjoy this wonderful season.

If one mentions the word Trigger it quickly calls to my mind a picture of a golden horse with a white patch responding to its owner Roy Rogers. Different strokes I guess.

The brain is a strange little computer. We respond to the senses and a smell, taste, sound or a glimpse can evoke the most intense memory and catch us completely off guard.

One smell that induces the most extreme reaction for me is the smell of burning leaves. If there was a candle that smelled like burning leaves I may be tempted to keep it lit all day.

Occasionally I’ll smell something that reminds me of a fresh spring day after a rain and feel that sense of contentment spring brings, but it’s the burning leaves that stoke my flame of happy memories.

Growing up in the Midwest, autumn was such a happy time filled with sights, sounds and moments captured by one scent—burning leaves. It doesn’t induce a single recollection, but a torrent of memories, happy and heartwarming that bring me to a moment in childhood special and revered.

Autumn meant the beginning of school, new clothes and clean saddle shoes. A trip on the first day of school to the corner drugstore to pick out supplies, including a new loose leaf, pencils and a clean eraser. The excitement of a new school bag complete with clear, zippered pencil case and a fresh box of Crayolas, tips sharp and shiny.

Coming home after school and changing into play clothes then going outside to play with friends and watch the neighborhood boys play football in the street.

I can still picture a leaf gently falling and covering the green grass after turning the most exquisite shades of reds, oranges and yellows. The pure joy of crunching the leaves while walking to school and then jumping in them after my father raked them to the curb. Of hearing him grumble because I messed them up and he had to redo them, yet he was never really angry. I always suspected he wanted to do the same himself.

For me it also meant the Jewish holidays were near and I looked forward to meeting friends at synagogue then walking to the bagel factory after services. The fun of Halloween and choosing a costume, begging for candy and rushing home to look through and see what wonderful delights the treat bag held.

The smell of burning leaves promised Thanksgiving and turkey roasting in the oven while we watched the Macy’s parade on television. Then soon came Christmas, Hanukah and the smell of latkes would arrive with vacation time.

No mention of autumn could be complete without invoking the smell of freshly crushed apples at the Cider Mill. The giant wheel mashing apples into submission as they released their delicious juices then paired with hot cinnamon donuts in a grease-laden paper bag. Followed by a ride on a hay wagon into the orchard to soak up the autumn colors or climb ladders to pick the ripe fruit off their trees. No memory would be complete without the crunch of a caramel dipped apple on Halloween.

Yes, that’s a lot to put on a single smell, but that’s why burning leaves are so powerful. I’m certain if you ask any Baby Boomer what smell evokes autumn for them it will be the same.

There’s a certain comfort in memories now. When younger I never thought much about the past because I was too busy living in the present, and of course when one is young there is very little past to recall.

This past year when I’ve been forced to come face to face with my own mortality and had little ability to move my life forward as I’d have wished, the past seems so suddenly important. It’s as if I pulled out an old scrapbook filled with pictures and suddenly recalled how precious each snapshot has become.

Nostalgia has been a big part of how I’ve coped with this captivity because although I wasn’t free to travel outward, I could travel backward at my leisure. I could reflect at will upon those memories that had settled into the nooks and crannies of my brain and become hidden from view. Whenever a scent or sight drew them out of hiding I luxuriated in their warmth.

There has been a great deal of sharing with old friends on the phone and of course Facebook, and recalling time spent in childhood schools, stores and hometown haunts. Remembering my favorite foods makes me long for a local deli, great burgers or pizza, Chinese food on Sunday or a trip to the DQ. The burning leaves seem to be the magic carpet that transports me to the past, flying over childhood and once again absorbing the sights, smells and tastes of my youth. Filling me with the warmth so desperately needed in these cold, scary COVID days.

Even now when I’m walking and come upon a small pile of fallen dried leaves I will crunch them under my feet and feel a sense of satisfaction as the sound hits my ears.

Perhaps it isn’t the COVID that has captured my imagination and yearning for happier times. It may simply be a side effect of baby boomerism. I can’t say for sure what has created this new desire to share memories with those with whom I shared my youth, but it is a heady and incredibly magnetic feeling.

The question “do you remember” could probably be translated as, “oh, how I miss.”

Whatever the reason I shall always love the smell of burning leaves and the wonderful feelings they evoke and in this uncertain world, of that I am certain.

Is Embracing the Unexpected a Path To Happiness?

How many times have you heard or been told that old saw, “no risk no reward?”

In other words, we must put ourselves out on a limb to find happiness or satisfaction in life.

Not so sure I agree with that one. Sure, there are people that will reach for the stars, even tumble a few times before they reach them, if at all. But so many live quiet, contented lives and thrive. They see the stars not as something to reach, but to enjoy.

Are the rewards even greater after the pain and heartache of failing and standing back up again? Isn’t just being content to wake up each morning and enjoy the simple consistency of it all enough to build a happy life?

Falling short of reaching the moon isn’t failure, but part of a journey many take toward self-discovery. Yet perhaps those that needn’t strive for something so grand are lucky. They already know themselves and what will make them happy. Still, is everyone’s perception of a grand life the same?

I have seen so many that have sought to achieve against impossible odds.

Many were successful, some were destroyed. Everyone’s journey toward self-discovery is unique. Coping with achieving less that one’s goals isn’t the same for every individual.

One never knows what will await someone at the end of the road, and whether or not they can handle what they find. Some can’t.

I’ve thought long and hard about what drives people.  Why we all have different levels to reach to sustain contentment and self fulfilment. Is it random or destiny that guides our path? If so, is accepting less than we sought merely a way to test one’s resolve or teach life lessons.  Or lead us toward our true path?

I’ve known people whose life expectations fell short and they couldn’t go on living. Sadly, they were unable to move ahead and chose to end their own life. I’ve always wondered why and how they made that drastic and tragic decision. Even what might have altered that choice.

Looking around it seems as though goals are quite diverse and complicated. Yet in some small way we follow a path we perceive as either smooth, or filled with potholes. It becomes obvious the outcomes we anticipate aren’t always as we’d hoped. Yet, is our plan the one that counts, or is there a better one we need to discover along the way, and to follow? I believe in many cases there is. And doesn’t a detour usually signal there is construction on a new fresh and better road being prepared ahead?

For many the journey is calm and certain.
I knew so may that opted for a calm and quiet existence and life didn’t turn out that way. We always move ahead into a future that is uncertain and unpredictable whatever we pursue.

Others who sought a more unconventional life actually found that peace and self-awareness must include valuing calm and restraint.

We can choose, but so much of the time destiny chooses for us.

We only have a certain modicum of control over the life we choose.

Yet many will readily admit choice is an illusion and we often find ourselves on unexpected roads.

Like driving down a familiar street and finding it closed. Once we’ve turned onto the detours unfamiliarity leads us in directions better than we ever anticipated.

Many will tell you it’s those new roads that bring us to destinations filled with great joy, knowledge and adventure. Still, some wish they’d stayed on the old road and remain dissatisfied with the outcome.

Whatever one’s circumstance may be, human beings must adapt to be content. There is new purpose and fulfillment in unexpected twists and turns.

I have seen so many that stubbornly battled life in a grudge match that didn’t end well.

I suppose what I’m saying is that great opportunities don’t always present themselves in a manner you imagine or insist upon.

Keeping open to new adventures, changes and detours along life’s road may be exactly what leads us to that best life we always sought. No matter how unexpected the path may be.

So I Had This Weird Dream Last Night and…

“Every second of the night I live another life…” Heart song These Dreams.

Even after living so many years, it’s almost impossible to get a handle on this human comedy we call life.

Whoever or whatever felt a need to create humans had a rather bizarre sense of humor.

Or perhaps an unfathomable need for entertainment.

I’m not certain which.

Of course, the older I become the less I seem to understand about the whys and wherefores of our existence, except for one.

It was a foregone conclusion that life would be hard. Humans would need some ways to cope with the difficulties they’d encounter along the way.

It’s no accident the Olmecs, who lived in present-day Mexico thousands of years before the Inca and Aztec empires discovered cocoa beans. Someone threw us a bone that day.

It seems the day we changed addresses and left Eden we moved into a pretty tough neighborhood.

I guess it was okay for Eve to walk around nude showing off her body eating fresh fruits and vegetables, but once carbohydrates entered the picture clothes became a necessity for women. Okay, some women.

Not to be in any way sacrilegious here, but getting thrown out of Eden may have been a way to cast the blame for the hardships of life on man himself.

Almost as if the creator blamed their own creation for what they knew would be a tough road ahead. Like if General Motors built cars with square tires and then blamed the drivers for a rough ride.

So how does man cope with the hardships we all encounter on this journey? Since everyone walks a different path, I can’t imagine there is one perfect fix for all. Okay, perhaps a great pizza. Come on who doesn’t love pizza?

Yet lately I’ve been transfixed on dreams as one of the great coping mechanisms of life. And they’re free!

Most people would agree that dreams are very much a carbon copy of life, only you control the narrative.

In our dreams we create worlds, enter places we’ve never been and choose outcomes to our liking.

Of course there are some pretty terrifying dreams out there, but did you notice whenever things get really hairy and the pig monster is about to eat you, you wake up? Yes, I said pig monster and please do not judge.

Can’t stop bad stuff when you’re awake can you?

Sleeping, our subconscious controls the outcome, but awake we can only react to situations that occur.

Do we have some control over our lives? I imagine you can choose your own clothes, streaming services and whether to buy that precooked chicken at Costco.

Yet the life changing moments that are thrust upon us without our consent, not an option.

The biggies like illness, death, loss and even love seem to be planned without our permission or input at all.

That’s why dreams are so interesting. In dreams we can spend time with loved ones who are gone, look skinny in a bathing suit, go on a blind date that isn’t mind numbingly boring, or travel to places we’ve never seen.

I’m not certain whether or not some of the places I’ve visited in my dreams actually exist and I’ve forgotten about them. Or I’ve created them myself out of bits and pieces of areas from the past.

You can even go back in time and be young again. Something not even the greatest plastic surgeon or hours at the gym can accomplish.

You can revisit your childhood and spend time in the house where you lived with old friends.

You can see people you haven’t seen in years and catch up. Or meet new people you’ve no idea about who they are or why they appeared.

You can change the outcome of bad decisions, redo mistakes, fix a bad haircut or go fishing with your grandfather and brother again, even though both are sadly gone.

I’m not saying dreams will erase the pain of loss after waking, perhaps even make it worse in some ways. Still, your mind must have a reason for allowing us to be with the people we’ve loved and lost. To keep them alive somehow.

In dreams we can go from one place to another in a second by flying, pen a masterpiece and then forget it on awakening or even eat a delicious meal without absorbing a calorie.

We can see the world without spending hours on a plane or dealing with the craziness of travel.

We can lie on a beach and soak up the warmth without sun blockers or dangerous rays attacking our skin.

But I do find it a bit scary we can visit places that don’t exist and meet people we’ve never seen. What’s up with that? I guess in dreams we have the ability to create our own worlds and people. Powerful, huh?

As terrifying as dreams can be, they are also extremely cathartic. How many times have you wrestled with a problem or choice and found the solution in a dream?

When you can’t find the words in a difficult situation your dreams can provide the perfect way to say or do what’s necessary.

If you’re going through a rough patch, dreams provide escape from the stress and angst of tough times.

Sure, so many dreams make no sense at all. Many often repeat themselves and no, I’m not sure why or what that message may be. But perhaps there may be one if we examine it a bit deeper.

Can we learn from dreams? I believe so.

Can we solve problems and resolve issues? Yes.

Can we escape from bad moments in our lives? Sure.

Can we predict the future through dreams as some believe? Not sure about that one. I’d have to say to each his own on that.

When we awaken has anything really changed? In some instances, it can.

Is it positive to run a marathon in a dream when upon waking it takes ten minutes to straighten up and take control of our creaky old bones? Not sure if that’s part of the joke or not, or perhaps just wishful thinking.

Or someone or something’s sense of humor.

I guess I’ve stopped taking dreams for granted. Whatever the reason our subconscious comes out to play at night, it must serve some purpose for our well-being.

Like releasing the pressure on a valve that’s about to explode.

Dreams may save us from being overwhelmed by the trials and tribulations of existence, in a zero calorie and drug-free way. Sort of watching a movie without the need for popcorn.

Whatever the reason, dreams are part of our lives. They can be funny, sad, scary or take us to places and emotions we’ve never experienced. And you don’t even need to go through a TSA checkpoint to get there.

Choose to Stop Choosing

Am I the only one who has noticed the choices we make about our lives seem to be less crucial as we age?

It once seemed that every time I was faced with a decision the importance was magnified by the fact it may affect the course of my life. Which let’s face it, seemed long to us then.

Now making a choice seems kind of, I don’t know, simplistic.

I’m of course not speaking about the choices that seriously affect our health conditions or life and death. I’m talking about the little things that come up daily that seem so trivial now.

Picking a college, or a profession at that time was quite daunting. After all it could change the course of one’s destiny.

I have noticed today’s young people seem to agonize far less that we did. They are not as locked into forever as we were. They have a shorter attention span to all things.

The go-with-the-flow mentality we always sought to cultivate has landed in our grandchildren’s generation.

They seem far less restricted by the fact they are locked into one path, but can select numerous options.

I have no idea why it was the case, but we had a far stronger attachment to permanence. While we believed you chose a life path and moved ahead never veering, they seem far less invested in forever.

I remember so well how things went then.

Certain life choices were serious and permanent. Well as far as we were concerned.

Things like marriage, how many children, profession, where to live, when to retire and where, were credible parts of our lives to consider and weigh.

It was very different for sure. There were expectations sprinkled with limitations for women.
Men were expected to go to college, get a profession or business degree. Women not so much.

Many women entered college with their parents urging them to pursue an Mrs. degree.

If a girl graduated with an engagement ring on her finger, to many parents that was a successful outcome.

Coming from a home where my father was a devout believer that women were to be cared for and know their place, I never felt I had many choices. However, blessed with a rebellious nature I opted to forego the oft designated and preferred teacher route. “The you’ll always have something to fall back on,” mantra that was drilled into girl’s minds back then.

I became a journalist, which for my time was a bit avant garde. It was a profession in which women were just beginning to feel their oats and a dream of mine since childhood.

Of course, women were expected to quit whatever job they held as soon as motherhood became imminent and be the caregiver in the family.

Most girls of my era never questioned or rebelled against that choice. We were very happy and satisfied in that role.

Still, many did feel there might be something more after child raising. Being more educated than our mothers we felt a slight twitching of discontent. I’m not saying everyone. Most of the women I knew were content to live happily as wives and mothers and make it their priority, as was I. Yet, some felt they wanted more choices for our lives. The Feminist Movement highlighted that need.

After all we’d gone to college, learned, secured professions and wanted to do something more than derive our self-esteem from how white we got our sheets and towels.

Believe me I’m not diminishing in any way the satisfaction of raising a family.  Seeing your children grow up happy, healthy and productive human beings is a job of which any women should be most proud. At least I am, and most mother’s I know.

However, we felt that after we raised our kids, new choices should be available to pursue.

And pursue we did.

So many women I knew left the nest they had built and made the choice to begin anew.

Some went back into their profession, some started businesses they had dreamed about and others pursued charity work.

These were important choices and women now seemed to have more of them.

After all the bra burnings, women’s movements and liberation inspiration it became clear the world had changed.

But not just for women. The choices women made now also changed the family dynamic. Men who had come to expect a certain paradigm in the home, were faced with new lifestyles.

Kids found it necessary to be more independent from their parents and learn skills they hadn’t ever thought necessary.

It didn’t happen overnight, but it all happened.

These were life changing choices.

Today what is really so important?

What day or where we play pickle ball? Which cruise to take, or should I let my hair go gray? Where is the best early bird special? Bra burning holds a far different meaning now. The act no longer symbolizes freedom. But the casting off of old worn-out clothing. Elastic can only stretch for so long before it must be tossed.

Figuring out which day of the week to do Physical Therapy isn’t the same as deciding on who you will marry.

The choices today seem to carry far less weight and carry far less consequences.

Yes, I’m aware any choice we make at any age can produce unexpected results, but it seems as you age don’t sweat the small stuff has finally kicked in.

I in no way intend to imply that Baby Boomers live inconsequential lives. No way. In fact so many have chosen to take risks and accomplish goals that are quite impactful and far reaching.

I can’t imagine a generation that marched against a war, for civil rights and witnessed assassinations could find satisfaction in irrelevance.

In the end, I wonder if we should acquiesce to the young of today. I’m looking around and not so sure they can do as good a job as we did. But I’m just too damn tired to fight the world anymore.

So, it’s tempting to play golf, maj jong, travel and choose which safari to experience.

Choice or no choice. I say what the hell, we’ve earned time off from tough choices. So why not just choose to enjoy every minute?

At My Age Words Are Scary

Sometimes we forget how scary words can be. We should have learned at a young age that words have great meaning but sometimes we forget.

Like when Little Red Riding Hood had her conversation with the big bad wolf who threatened to eat her up! Yeah, that should have been a hint he wasn’t there to play Candyland.

But I for one have too many times been guilty of dismissing the enormous power of language over our lives. Despite the little engine that could, I have too frequently told myself I can’t.

We are wired to absorb words into our brain, then they settle somewhere in our word vault where they sit, either doing good or bad as we plow through life.

Yes, I used plow because sometimes life can be as hard as digging up dirt in a rocky field.

Yet although we are aware that words can be damaging, abusive and harmful, we are often the ones who foist the harshest of the vocabulary upon ourselves.

Our subconscious, which is not always a friend by the way, can put the kibosh on our good times. Sort of the way a metabolism that sees carbs and ignores their existence instead of breaking them down, can create more fat cells.

Even if we change our rhetoric and tell ourselves we can instead of we can’t, our subconscious refuses to accept the latest version of our confidence level.

The negativity we have pushed forward stays and overpowers any new positive thoughts.

And yes, although we are saying nice things about ourselves, our subconscious, who let’s face it runs the show, isn’t buying it. So we’re locked into old ways of thinking, when we may have not been too happy with us and inserted some pretty rough stuff into the old confidence mechanism.

Our subconscious is like a movie critic that only likes black and white pictures and dismisses any benefits of color.

So how can we change our attitudes and fight this monster we may have created?

By the way, not everyone has filled the subconscious train with negative cargo and been unkind to their psyche, but many have. As one who stowed away plenty of harmful baggage, I’m here to say, that train is tough to get up a hill.

We all have a way to sabotage ourselves even if we don’t choose to do so. Our subconscious will find a way to keep you from doing the things you really want to experience, because it’s very tone deaf.

Yet, I still believe knowledge is power and so I’ve adopted a new attitude ala Patti Labelle. A new battle attack against a subconscious that has run the show for years. That was wired in our childhood. I now choose to be the new General George Patton, a real son of a bitch. I am taking back the reins of this old work horse and jumping over those hurdles.

How am I achieving this great feat you ask? I assume you would want to know because you’re still reading, so here goes:

I have eliminated the words “At my age” from my vocabulary. Or sure they can be used with other words, but no longer together. I seriously could not believe how many times a day I said these three self-sabotaging words. Is the phrase just another aspect of aging? Who knows, but it’s not good.

Do you want to travel to…? At my age I can’t rush around so much.

Should I buy a new couch? At my age why spend the money?

At my age I’m slowing down.

Do I need a new car? At my age…at my age… What the hell? Who am I methuselah?

So recently I head a story from a friend about an incredibly successful and influential man in his nineties remarrying for the fourth time.

“Wow, quite an optimist,” I said.

“No, you don’t understand,” my friend said. “That’s not how he thinks. He lives like he’s in his forties and has his whole life ahead of him. I think he believes he’ll live forever.”

I was dumbfounded. “Yes, but we don’t,” I said. Well I really didn’t say that, it was my subconscious adding its two cents.

“That doesn’t matter to him, he acts as though he’ll live forever and therefore he believes he has all the time in the world.”

Point taken, at least on a conscious level.

I decided I would embrace this new way of thinking. I would do the things I had told myself I was too old to do, feel, think and achieve.

After all I had my whole life ahead, right? No one actually knows how long that is, so why not believe it’s going to be super long?

Of course, my subconscious mind scoffed, fought for power and tried to override this whole new me, but I prevailed.

I have totally rearranged my thought process from, should I? to, why shouldn’t I?

We all should and age shouldn’t determine any decision that would bring happiness or more satisfaction in our lives.

Perhaps the key to staying young is simply not accepting that you aren’t. I know words have power and I am using all of mine to become that little engine that could. I think I can I think I can, No, I know I can. At my age at least I’ve learned that.

Oops, okay that was the last time I say them together, but it just seemed to fit in this instance.

Someone once said, “Words mirror how one feels and thinks. The moment people say something, they are already inevitably shaping the world.”

It’s your world, so take control and shape and shift it as you will. For as long as you will.

Looking Backward Can Lead Forward

So many people adhere to the mantra, “Never look back, always move forward in life.”

After much pondering, and my readers know how I love to ponder, I must disagree. At least in part.

I imagine the difference lies in why you’re looking backward.

Is it with regret? If so than perhaps that serves no purpose. Yet, in other ways it could.

The regrets we admit to in life, even to ourselves can serve a positive purpose going forward.

Refusing to reflect on and examine our past decisions can only lead to repeats of the choices which caused us pain and a lack of progress.

We need to see these experiences for what they really are: lessons. Ways to avoid the mistakes made before.

If never remembered they will probably be repeated thus leading to the same outcome. As life speeds by we learn that time is something to be embraced and repetition is the surest way to waste precious moments.

If we don’t contemplate and remind ourselves of past foibles, we will squander time.

So it’s important to ruminate when faced with similar problems.

This is a positive outcome of the past.

A negative one would be looking backward to decry and feel badly about those incidents we could or should have handled better.

If you have reached a point where you have examined your behavior and the lessons have been embraced and committed to memory than beating yourself up over them serves no purpose.

We can’t go back and undo the past no matter how much we would like. The only way to turn a negative outcome into a positive one is to use the information going forward.

No good can come of self-flagellation.  Making oneself feel stupid or naïve only encourages self-doubt and anger over something we cannot change.

We all have a mental list of those moments in life we’d like to recant. Yet when and if we had the opportunity to do so, would they change the future in any way? Would they change the person we have become and interfere with lessons we learned and used to our advantage moving forward?

If we are all a product of our past decisions, we wouldn’t be the same had we modified those outcomes.

Sort of the old sliding door affect. Would changing one decision, even as minor as taking a different route to a destination, have led us to a different place and result?

Probably, yes.

And would we have been satisfied with that variation? I suppose there is no way of knowing.

I do know that we are the ultimate product of all the choices we make. Bad and Good.

Many instances in life we’re disappointed with a result very different than we’d hoped for.  Yet looking back on it later, it’s actually so much better than we could have imagined.

If that is the case, many ask what is the point if fate is at work in our lives? Do we really choose or does the universe choose for us? Well truly that question is above my pay grade.

I can only say many times I’ve wished for a certain outcome and felt sad when it didn’t go my way.

So many times I’ve been shocked at how much better an incident turned out. Mostly far more wonderful than I could’ve ever imagined. An outcome that sent my life in a much more positive direction.

Then are we to believe we should just let it all go? Perhaps so. Yet as control freaks we want to believe we do have the ability to choose for ourselves. That we are the masters of our fates. It all begins and ends with us.

If one needs to believe we are, than by all means I say you are the boss of your life. Believe and embrace your own power.

So many say we create our destiny and only we are the architects of our fate.

Yet I still feel that there is something more. Something that is at play whenever we are faced with a possibility that will ultimately take us down a new path. An unknown, untraveled destination.

We go the direction we believe is the best option. Sometimes it is, sometimes not. Yet from a bad result may come new wisdom and knowledge. An ability to decide more shrewdly next time. If we look at the past as a tool, always there and available to guide and inspire us, looking backward can be seen as positive.

The second way to revisit the past is for the purpose of enjoying our memories. It’s why we have the ability to remember. That’s why it’s such a tragedy if one loses the capacity to recapture time with loved ones and happy times of youth.

Memories aren’t just to learn from, they are to enjoy. A way to time travel back to innocent, simpler times.

No responsibilities, no worries, just fun and carefree moments with friends and family with whom you experienced those years.

So if someone tells you looking backward is not a positive activity, be reminded of all the joy and knowledge we can receive by doing exactly that.

As long as we don’t spend all our time in the past instead of making new memories we can call on in the future.

So conjure up a few happy minutes with your yesterdays and then go visit your grandchildren. After all, tomorrow you will be an important part of their memories.

All Great Inventions Began With Women

I am so tired of hearing men talk about how women nag. What in the world defines nagging. Perhaps we should switch it around and say men don’t do things on the first five times they are asked. So women are merely inspiring them.

Now that makes more sense to me.

One never hears about the fact that all great inventions throughout time have been inspired by women. And the fact men don’t always respond to first requests.

No, this is not a sexist rant so just go with me please. I shall gladly explain.

For example, the trash compactor is the direct result of women asking their husbands to take out the garbage. How many men have been sitting in front of the television watching football and heard their wife call out from the kitchen.

“Honey, take out the garbage, please.”

 No response.

“The garbage is overflowing I need you to take it to the can, please.”

No response except a whoop from the den about some field goal.

“Hello, the garbage isn’t going to take itself out.”

No response.

The wife enters the room.

Her husband looks up innocently.

“Didn’t you hear me ask you to take out the garbage?”

“I was watching that last play. It was amazing you should have seen Mahomes? The guy’s beyond great. Do we have any more of those potato skins left?”

“The garbage is overflowing. I need you to take it outside. The next commercial you can grab the bag and not miss a play.”

“Sure, sure as soon as the game is over. And could you check on those skins please? I almost forgot, are those wings done yet?”

“You said that hours ago.” Wife sighs, husband returns to game.

At some point in the evolution of man one husband took a minute to focus on what his wife was asking.

He inquired, “Why can’t you take out the garbage?”

Leaving the hospital after having the can of Budweiser removed from his ass, he pondered the question of why men have to do garbage duty.

Wait. he thought, perhaps there is a way to delay the inevitable. Why not just crush up the trash to allow room for more. Then less trips to the garbage can.

And thus the trash compactor was born. And yes, we have women to thank for that one.

Now we turn to the refrigerator.

In the beginning I imagine a woman discovered that she could keep leftovers from spoiling when they accidentely dropped into an icy snowbank.

“Oh look,” she told her husband. “This leftover deer is still fresh. Can you build me a box that’s cold enough to keep leftovers in?”

Man decided this would greatly lessen his need to hunt so often and spend more time on other pursuits. So he thought long and hard about how best to accomplish his wife’s request.

Hmmm, he thought. Maybe I can cut down a tree, hollow it out and fill it with ice. Then she can put the meat inside.

It caught on quickly and soon everyone in the area were making tree freezers.

Women were ecstatic to have this convenience.

On a roll now, next, women wondered why they had to leave the cave in freezing weather to cook the food over a fire.

“Hey, Hymie, Can you make a cooking pit inside the cave for me? It’s too cold to stand outside and roast a moose.”

Despite thinking her a bit demanding since he had just created a frozen tree, he relented. Not wanting to be kept away from fun time with his bros, he quickly found a spot to keep the cooking duties inside.

But he still reserved the right to cook over an open fire outside. So in essence barbequing, over which men still hold dominion, became another lifestyle innovation. One that women and men agreed was a twofer that  benefitted them both.

In all three of those progressions into the future it was women cajoling their husbands to help with the chores that led to these modern improvements.

I believe one of the most overlooked of modern conveniences has not been credited to women, but mistakenly to men.

The automobile. Yes, men get the credit, but it was women that inspired the idea.

Let us check our history.

It happened during a rainstorm. The ground was muddy and difficult to walk over.

There was to be a party at a neighbor’s cave. The husband sat waiting and watching two neighbors killing one another over a bear carcass. After his wife finished dressing, she entered his area of the man cave wearing a new tiger skin and matching shoes.

“Let’s go,” he grunted. “We late for party.”

When they reached the cave entrance she turned to him.

“Excuse me? Hello, it’s wet.”

He walked out as she stood fixed on the spot.

“Come,” he urged. “We miss all the chicken wings.”

“You really expect me to walk out there in the rain in my new frock and shoes? You must be crazy if you think I’m trudging through the mud. I’ll look a mess by the time I get there.”

“Not my fault it rains.”

“Well, I’m not walking.”

“You expect me to carry you?”

“That would be fine.”

He continued toward the neighbor’s cave as she stood fixed to the floor.

“Come!”

“Nope, I’m not ruining new outfit. You carry me or I not go.”

He looked back to see her standing, arms folded and staring at the cave ceiling.

“Oh brother, you take the cake,” he said as he walked back into the cave. He lifted her asking, “Happy now?”

“No, not really I’m still getting wet.”

And so was born the wagon. And, of course the umbrella soon followed. Then the car etc. etc..

So who actually inspired the car? I believe I solved that riddle.

I could go on and on, but I believe I’ve made my point.

Men may have created many inventions we enjoy today, but women inspired and cajoled them to do so.

I have never seen a muse pictured as a man. Neither have I ever seen men inspiring wars to be fought over them. Helen of Troy? Trojan Horse?

Before you get all sexist accusing on me, I am merely pointing out that women have inspired men to do better, grow and create.

Even in the Garden of Eden it was Eve who told Adam there was no reason to run to the grocery store when apples covered the trees.

Oops, okay maybe that was a bad example, but I believe I made my case.

I don’t want to be one sided here, so I will admit men are responsible for inventing ear plugs. There, Fellas, happy now. I gave you credit.

So next time a woman says, “How many times do I have to ask you to…” perhaps she is merely inspiring the next great invention for mankind. Just say thank you and get to work, Guys.

Ouch! My Feet are Killing Me.

Men will never understand the pain a woman suffers. I’m not talking about the trying to push a watermelon through your cervix pain. No, I’m talking about the pain you can’t acknowledge or scream about.

At least in childbirth you are allowed to yell and call your mate every name in the book. And even make up a few new ones if you want.

I’m talking about the pain of walking in high-heeled shoes that are pinching your toes like Godzilla is bouncing on them. I’m talking about that feeling that if you have to walk another step you will rip off those Christian Louboutins and beat the closest person over the head with the heel point.

An overwhelming Oh-my-God-I-wish-I-were-dead kind of pain only a woman in five-inch heels could understand.

Okay, I do realize men get kidney stones and they lose their minds from the pain.

So, if men have experienced that, then they do have some idea of a woman’s suffering.

So why am I bringing this up at all? Do you not have more important things to worry about, Norma?

Of course I do, but the other night I was reminded of women’s suffering and tolerance for pain watching Melania Trump at the inaugural ball.

Now this is not a political piece so please don’t start sending me hate memes or unfriending me. It’s to make a point about women and shoes.

I’m certain it took hours to put herself together and she was bedecked in a designer gown and all the trimmings.

But the real story here is the shoes.

When she walked into the ball I instantly saw on her face that familiar look of pain. Someone who is wishing she could take off her shoes and wiggle her toes in ice water. Whose toes hadn’t felt blood rushing through them in hours. Yet she knew the fashion world was snapping pics and judging, so Birkenstocks were out of the question.

When I was young in the Mesozoic era, the highest heels we wore were three inches.

That was enough to pinch, hurt and ouch our way through occasions when it was necessary to sport a dressy shoe.

Now women wear five-inch heels. Are you kidding me? I once saw Jodie Foster in heels so high her calves were bulging tighter than Tyson’s fists.

We’ve all been there. Trying to smile and act cool while we’re fighting not to cry or scream out loud from the agony. Trying not to show it on our face when we are literally wincing from the torture.

So my question is why? Why wear shoes that will cause you excruciating pain instead of sensible-sized heels?

I’m thinking one of the best parts of getting to grandma age is you never have to wear those Manolo torture chambers again. No one gives a damn if a seventy-five-year-old woman’s legs look shapely under her gown.

My friends and I fell back down to earth years ago searching for pretty flats to wear for fancy occasions.

And what a difference it made.

While other women in skyscraper heels suffered and tried to smile through the evening, we were cozy and comfortable in old lady flats with a cushy insole.

Now I do have some friends who can rock a one or two incher while wearing a soft insert, but I’m not that adventurous. Nope. I’ve decided life is too short to wear a vice around my feet that squeezes harder with each moment of swelling.

The last time I wore a heel I was limping and crying within the first hour. I said “screw this and walked around in my nylons the rest of the night.”

Do I care if people were pointing and giggling behind my back? Hell no, because they were all men. The women were nodding and sending me looks of pity and total understanding of my dilemma. Although some of them continued to brave on in higher heels with full knowledge they wouldn’t be walking without pain for the next few days.

So why do women care at all? I have a bunch of shoes in my closet I will never wear again. Yet I don’t have the heart to give them away yet.

Many were only worn once, but they sit sadly in the box awaiting their night on the town.

A night that will never come. So why do I keep them?

Is it because I actually believe that I will someday be able to tolerate the torture again? Does old age make you more masochistic?

Trust me. There is no pain killer strong enough to eliminate the misery and still allow me to walk upright without bumping into walls.

My toes still smart when I think about the squeezing they endured in those pointed, but absolutely yummy candy-apple-red heels I so loved.

It’s a chick thing and I don’t expect men to get it.

Most men would be sensible and ask, “well if they hurt your feet so much why wear them?”

Easy for them to say. Does common sense have anything at all to do with fashion?

Well, I’d have to admit when you’re young you kind of feel it’s your duty to suffer for style.

It’s so great to get to the Chico’s age. Now one can wear loose clothes, low heels and big necklaces or scarves to cover that turkey neck.

Don’t even start me on the whole fabulous “throw-a-hat-on” thing.

As difficult as it is to age, I must admit one of the perks is you no longer have to give a damn about fashion. You can display great taste even wearing comfortable clothes and low-heeled shoes.

At least there are other choices now besides Naturalizers or the grandma kickers of yesteryear.

Sadly, most people are too busy noticing all those wrinkles on your face to even make it down to the feet anyway.

The only thing a woman in her seventies should be doing with a five-inch heel is using it as a weapon if she’s attacked.

Even if I could get them on and stand in them, chances are I’d fall flat on my face immediately. What am I, a high wire performer in my old age?

As a public service I have a tip for the CIA and Mossad. Next time you are trying to make a terrorist talk, just put them in a pair of five-inch, one size too small Manolo Blahniks and make them walk two miles. They’ll sing like a bird after only twenty minutes.

Are you Elated or Deflated? Should Elsie the Cow be our Guide?

One hears a great deal about the word happy.

Are you happy?

What makes you happy?

Are you happy all the time and on and on?

Because happy seems to be a word that evokes much discussion one must wonder why this whole obsession with feeling elated?

Is happiness what we seek or aspire to achieve?

Can it be achieved at all?

Is happy a state of being or a state of mind?

Can we make ourselves happy or must happiness come through outside sources?

I hate to confuse the issue any more, but lately I’ve been wondering if happy is just a synonym for content?

Are the words related or even the same?

And is one state of being better than the other?

You must be thinking I have a great deal of time on my hands to sit and ponder words, but are they just words?

Or are they something much greater? Are they actually the building blocks for what creates our ability to live a good life?

I think words are in many ways quite responsible for how we live and fulfill our existence.

So can we be happy all the time? Of course not.

Let’s face it, life throws lots of curveballs our way and sometimes we don’t hit it over the fence.

I’m sure like me life has delivered you a walk or two and you found yourself standing on first base wondering why you couldn’t smash it out of the park.

Some would say there is a big difference between the two words, happy and content. I disagree. Babies don’t know if they’re happy or content. They just coo when fed and dry and place no labels on the feeling.

Happy is the gold standard while content seems to be its orphaned silver cousin. Settling for second best for those that can’t achieve happiness to the fullest.

If someone asks how you are and you say content their first reaction is, “content, why aren’t you happy?”

But what really is happy? And is it exhausting to maintain?

I imagine it varies with each person.

What makes us happy is a very personal and selective option.

Some are happy with lots of money, or love, family, a job or any number of things one may conjure up.

Yet no matter what the reason for your happiness it can easily deflate, like a balloon in a storm.

You can be happy one minute and the next in despair. Circumstances change our mood drastically depending on what life sends our way.

So if happiness is so elusive and easily replaced by gloom, why battle so hard to achieve it?

That’s where contentment comes into the picture.

I’ve learned we simply can’t be happy all the time. Oh sure despair, we’d like to be, but that’s quite improbable. Rationalization helps, like when you break your leg and say, “Oh well it could have been both legs.” If that works go for it.

So how do we find that balance between being elated and being deflated?

It’s as if we are always on an emotional roller coaster.

Some say they are always happy and see the bright side of every situation. To them I ask, have you any extra drugs to share?

If God had designed man to be happy all the time he wouldn’t have sent the snake into the Garden of Eden. Yep, that rascal became part of the plan and now despite how much we’d love to feel great all the time, it ain’t gonna happen.

If we are supposed to be happy all the time, why are those other pesky emotions hanging around our psyche?

Sorrow, anger, disappointment, etc, all seem to exist in there too?

So why is contentment actually the better choice?

I offer that it’s because it’s so much easier to achieve.

Content conjures up visions of a cow like Elsie grazing the fields all day chewing on grass.

But is that really so bad? Isn’t it a good thing to be content with our life all the time despite what happens to impede on some desired happiness?

On a regular day when we are simply existing and filling our hours with stuff that needs attending to, is it so bad to just be content we are able to breathe and live in the moment?

I am always content in the knowledge I accomplished my tasks for the day, starting with making my bed. Yet to say I was happy about my bed kind of takes the meaning away from being happy about winning the lottery.

Content covers it perfectly. We can feel good when we are content.

I am content sitting here and writing this blog. Or hot cocoa and a Hallmark movie, or finding a perfect pair of boots for winter.

Happy should be saved for special occasions like your good china. If we bring it out too often the dishes begin to chip and even break while hand washing them.

There is something comfortable about feeling content. Your life is on track and moving effortlessly. No highs, no lows, no oops, what just happened? You just move along on a stable course.

The higher the high the lower the fall while content keeps you on an even keel. We feel responsible for our happiness and making it last. Contentment is a more natural and easy state to achieve and maintain.

You can feel good about your existence even when you are not ecstatic or jumping for joy.

What is so bad about simply floating quietly through space?

Must we always seek to jump over the moon? And there is that cow reference again.

Many believe happiness is a choice we make each day. I applaud the effort and it’s admirable to choose happy.

Yet it’s also quite acceptable to admit we are merely content, living our life and saving our energy for times we may need it most.

Kind of like a jogger that slows the pace and occasionally speeds up to win the race.

I don’t know why being contented with one’s life takes a back seat to happy. Perhaps they are meant to simply complement one another.

As Roy Rogers used to say, “Happy trails to you,” but if the trail is only contented, I argue it’s okay to just be okay.

Here’s one of my Thanksgiving recipes I love

Happy Holidays!

Pumpkin Blueberry Mousse

With Pumpkin Candy Crunch Topping

1 cup pumpkin

1 cup fresh blueberries (optional)

7 ounces of cream cheese

1 ½ cups whipped cream

1 cup powdered sugar

1/8/ tsp cloves

1/8 tsp ginger

1/8 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

Mix sugar and cream cheese until whipped nicely.

Add pumpkin and seasonings

Mix well. Set aside and whip cream until peaked.

Fold all but 1½ into pumpkin mixture. Set aside rest of whipped cream for topping.

Fold in blueberries and pour into parfait glasses or martini glasses. Top with whipped cream. If you don’t want berries you can leave them out.

Place in fridge to set.

Pumpkin Seed Candy Crunch

Place two tablespoons butter and 2 tablespoons packed brown sugar in non-stick frying pan.

When melted and combined add ½ cup of pumpkin seeds (Not roasted or salted)

Sauté on low heat (watch carefully so they don’t burn) for about five minutes until seeds are nicely coated.

Remove from burner and place in fridge to harden.

When set and butter is hardened remove crunch from pan and chop up into pieces. Not too small but small enough to fit on top of mousse.

Bring mousses back out and top with crunchies.

Enjoy!!!

When Can a Work in Progress Stop Working?

At what point do we no longer qualify as a work in progress?

Throughout our lives we content ourselves with the fact we are indeed a work in progress (WIP). We screw up and we allow ourself to be comforted by the fact we need to learn lessons. Grow as human beings and make mistakes.

So, at exactly at what point does this excuse run out of gas.

What point on life’s highway does the motor conk out and we can no longer use the work-in-progress-get-out-of-jail-free card to keep cruising along?
Is it in our thirties? After we have survived the teen years, stumbled through our twenties and are now part of the generation we were taught not to trust? Isn’t that a good jumping off point?

Looking back from my perch here in old lady land, I’d say definitely not.

There is a ton of stuff we missed out on in our thirties that must be carried forward into our forties. Marriage rules, self-sacrifice, raising children, peacemaking and trying to allocate our time wisely.

We realize there was actually no time left for ourselves at ten at night when we rolled into bed after a day of chasing kids, cooking meals and being superwoman.

So as we approached our fiftieth year, kids older and college bound, our marriage either intact, or about to come unglued, are we still now considered a work in progress?

Objectively speaking this is definitely not the point we can say we are in full bloom.

Now we face new challenges like empty nesting, attempting to have a conversation with our mate that doesn’t center around the kids, no more carpools or gigantic hauls at the grocery store. Perhaps widowhood or divorce impels us into the future alone.

Yet if we were progressing all through our years until fifty, shouldn’t we now have the skills to deal with all these new feelings and trials?

Work should be completed, right? Our time is ours and we can do anything we want. Hello restaurants every night and days waiting to be filled with time just for us. We are now our own boss and we can plan our own calendar.

No watching our son running around in pouring rain on a slippery soccer field and feeling like the worst mother ever. No more hearing ourself described as lame or out of touch by our teen agers. No more horrified as we begin paying attention to anti-aging commercials on TV.

We enter a new world when our children leave home. It’s about trying to arrange time with friends and even figure out what we’d like to do with our lives now that we are not a chauffer, a laundress and a cook.

But are we still a work in progress?

I’m betting, yes. Simply by virtue of the fact we have all new lessons to learn.

New skill sets that must addressed like, aging, no we are not twenty anymore. We slide through our fifties feeling proud of coping and managing this new era.

Then we face the sixties, a tricky time with issues that arise unlike any before.

So here we are still a WIP with new questions to ask and adjusted priorities. Have things changed because of the work we did? Or as a natural result of the aging process?

Despite the reason we now see things through a different lens.

We are suddenly faced with the fact that life is in our face. Everyday tasks and decisions that allowed us to live outside of the harsh truths works no longer.

Of course we haven’t reached sixty without confronting the sadness, tragedy and hardships humans suffer. Yet life had a way to distract us with the flurry of Now we have time to reflect on those ignored truths we set aside as we changed diapers, packed lunches, bandaged bruised knees and laughed at the Muppets.

Unaware that as a WIP all these moments meant something to our growth, our maturity, our life lessons.

Now in our sixties we realize they very much did.

We must find new ways to fill our days in a meaningful way. Our responsibilities have shifted and our little birds are out of the nest as we fight not to notice its emptiness.

Are we happy in this new world seeking adventures, looking forward to each day with curiosity and excitement? I’d hope so because isn’t that a part of the work we did? Learning to embrace each moment and find joy in every day?

I guess we could say we’ve grown, learned and flourished with no more work to do. Yea for us! We did it.

Or did we?

No way. Each era delivers new works to achieve. Facing them, using the information we gathered should help us more easily accomplish new challenges.  

Health issues, responsibilities toward our aging parents, facing our own mortality now looms larger than twenty years hence. Our seventies have brought us to new challenges and obstacles.

If we’re lucky we’ll continue moving forward. Learning, growing, progressing and treasuring times in which we find joy and satisfaction like simply awaking to another day.

I suppose the answer is we are always a work in progress. There is no diploma we can earn, no award to win, no stage to step upon to become a completed WIP. I imagine when we believe we are finally there, is when we must understand there is always much more to do.

Would You Live Your Life Over Again? Or is Once Enough?

Thomas Wolfe famously wrote a classic American novel entitled, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” These words seemed to resonate with most people who at times during their lives feel a need to return to their roots. To smell the smells, hear the noises and feel the feelings of being home again is enticing.

Of being in the safety and comfort of youth and innocence. A time when loved ones were still here and home meant warmth and security. A place to dream, plan and experience the excitement of a life not lived, but still only imagined. A future fraught with possibilities and a present filled with friends, fun and hope for the future.

I usually try to inject humor into my blogs, yet sometimes life isn’t funny. It’s sad, confusing and devastating. And perhaps that’s why I am suddenly drawn to memories.

I guess when you put it that way who wouldn’t want to go home again?

And yet as Wolfe reminded us, we can’t. These memories are a form of time travel transporting us back to happier times. And that realization is a moment of sadness. It fills us with a longing to return to our past we so covet and yearn to recapture. Memories keep the people and places we lost in our lives alive.

Oh, I’m not saying that we should live in the past, foregoing the present and future while wishing to go backward.

I’m just saying there are moments in life that seem to sneak up on us like a thief and rob us of the present. We find ourselves steeped in a memory.

But aren’t these recollections actually an important part of our present and future?

Isn’t what and who we are a product of what we were?

I myself find that there is no intention when these memories arise.

I will simply pass a store window and see a sofa and suddenly I’ll recall the living room of our first home. And I am drawn instantly back in time to the feelings and moments spent there. Of my late brother using the back of the couch as a horse pretending to be Hopalong Cassidy.

Or I could be watching a television show and see a bakery when suddenly I can smell the place on our corner I used to go with my mother to get bread and cakes. These feelings can be so powerful they stop us in our tracks and we are forced to remember, to experience, to luxuriate in the glow of our past.

So why does it seem at times we all desire a return to childhood. To innocence and hope?

Surely no one can honestly say they would like to go through it all again. To fight the war of existence and battles of becoming who we must be.

Eons ago as a teen I was watching a talk show and the host asked the audience how many would like to live their life over again.

Only a few hands were raised in response. I was shocked to see so many people would choose not to redo, to reconstruct their lives. I mean doesn’t everyone want a do over at times?

As I grew older, I fully understood the reason for their lack of enthusiasm reliving it all again.

I imagine a great part of that question and answer lies in the fact that as we age, we gain wisdom.

And a big part of that wisdom is understanding. Knowing if we went backward in time we’d have to repeat all our mistakes to gain the knowledge we now possess. The lessons, hard fought and difficult would certainly reoccur since we would lack the ability to know any better.

The caveat is I would like to go back knowing what I know now. So what’s the point?

What’s’ the point indeed?

What’s the reason that we stand transfixed when a sudden memory intrudes on the now? Perhaps memories are the way we do live our life over?

Still why are we sometimes filled with a longing to return to simpler times and familiar places?

Is it a flaw in our nature? Something that makes us want to escape the present instead of facing it head on?

I don’t believe that is the case.

I think these memories are a powerful reinforcement of our own humanity and the reality we are still in the world.

Most of us rarely sit and focus on how we became who we are. How we arrived in this place or achieved or failed at our goals.

Part of this may be the pain of knowing we can’t go back and change anything.

And perhaps that’s why we need to return so badly to the “then.” To a place where there is no reckoning, no judgement, no regret.

To feel that sense of freedom that the whole world lies before us and time is never ending.

That we have a lifetime to dream, hope and live. Or assured that years didn’t seem to fly by at an alarming rate as we stood by powerless and watched.

When we were kids, summer vacation seemed eons away. Christmas and Chanukah couldn’t come fast enough. November just dragged until we turned the calendar over to December.

Now we are faced with the fact the clocks speed along like a rocket and Monday becomes Friday in the blink of an eye.

We’re supposed to be psychologically healthy and grieve for our loved ones, yet afterward get on with life. That “life is for the living” is a mantra we all must adopt to be happy. Yet deep inside we question that is true.

If we’re honest with ourselves we fight against loss each day. When the past slips up on us in a memory, it is actually us giving in to the fact we miss happier times.

And that’s okay because that memory is a gift that allows us to revel in the past when we need comforting.

These moments we feel warmed by the happy times of the past us, the past them who are no longer here. Through these memories, they return and yes, it may be for only a few moments, but we need that time again. Who we are is what we were and who were in our lives.

To ignore this need goes against a pleasure in which we should all indulge.

So when you hear a bell ring, it’s okay to taste that Good Humor ice cream again. When you an old song plays it’s okay to dance and sing once more with friends while bouncing on your bed. When you taste a favorite food it’s wonderful to return to your family table once again and share a meal with loved ones.

It’s a necessary part of who we are and what we need to be us. To survive and thrive in a world that is too often unwelcoming and cold.

I wish everyone all the wonderful memories you require to feel the love and strength from what and who came before.

How to Put Pedal to The Metal Your Way

“Gonna dance, gonna fly, take a chance riding high, before my numbers up. I’m gonna fill my cup, I’m gonna live til I die… Frank Sinatra song I’m Gonna Live Til I Die.

So the other night I dreamed I was young and as I was luxuriating in the glow of youth I was jolted awake by a pain in my leg. “Ouch,” I yelled and woke up to rub the cramp out while trying desperately to recapture the dream. No such luck. Reality interfered with my moment of recovered youth.
I could have used the words from Don’t Rain on my Parade in the intro but in California rain is a blessed event so I chose old blue eyes instead. Same message.

Oh ,sure you think, she’s complaining about getting old again? Okay, I admit I do discuss aging a lot, but when constantly confronted with the realization the world thinks I’m older than Methuselah, it can play with your head.

The other day my brother asked me if I still drive. Well since my jetpack is in the shop now for repairs I’m using my car to get around. What is he talking about?

What am I one-hundred years old? Is he kidding? Why on earth would he think I don’t drive. I’d bet my last dollar I’m a better driver than he is.

I have no intention of not driving until I can’t reach the pedals anymore.

It’s moments like these that make me feel like people are looking at me like I just sat up in a coffin.

Isn’t it bad enough I’m starting to look like the crypt keeper, do I have to act that way as well?

I’ve seen people well into their nineties, driving, playing pickleball and actually living as though they still were alive.

Am I wrong or what’s the point of being here if you’re not living?

I just heard about a very famous and powerful man that remarried recently at the age of 93.

Okay, I thought but why not just live together? Then I read more and learned that he chose to live his life and make decisions as though he were still a young man with all the time in the world. Wow, what a concept. It’s a way of looking at life as though you can accomplish anything. Choosing your own destiny and not succumbing to the time-is-running-out theorists. Great attitude.

I wasn’t raised that way. My parents kept their cars for ten years because they thought they were getting too old to buy a new one. They lived well into their nineties so a new car would have gotten enough use.

I do find myself slipping into that mindset occasionally. Should I buy a new chair or is this one still okay?

I need to readjust my thinking. I’ll buy that new chair. If I were twenty years younger, would I? Yes, then why not now?

Do we get to a point in life where we make calculated decisions based on statistical insurance tables of life expectancy? And should we? Or should we live, dream, act and think like we’re still thirty and have a lifetime ahead of us?

I say go for it. I am. From now on I’m living like I’m young, strong, tough and operating on all eight cylinders. Hey I know it’s car talk, but I’m a Motown girl you know.

What matters most in the end, others expectations for our lives or ours?

So many people are fortunate enough to keep achieving and reaching new goals well into their nineties. Baby Boomers are coming into our stride.

Gone is the day when we had to retire to Boca and play Maj Jong all day. Although some days I admit that’s a plan I can live with.

I just think we buy into others beliefs about us instead of our own.

No one should ever set limits on another person because it’s up to only us how we choose to live.

My brother asking if I still drive plants a seed that signals, I think you’re old and can no longer function as you once did.

Of course he’s eleven years younger so to him I seem old as dirt.

But isn’t it how I seem to me that actually matters.

Of course our choices do become a bit more limited physically as we age. I’m well aware that climbing ladders and running a marathon isn’t in my wheelhouse. Yet mentally if we can think young, we can stay young.

In many ways we are freed up to do those things we didn’t have time for when younger.

Sit at the beach and dangle our feet in the water. Except in LA where you have to fight for a spot on the sand with the homeless and the criminals. But maybe somewhere else.

We can take up a hobby we always dreamed of like cooking, painting or pottery and discover a hidden talent. Didn’t Grandma Moses begin painting at ninety something?

We can spend more time with our grandchildren and take an interest in their hobbies.

It actually is a mindset after all. Living our best life is for only us to discern. Not those who see us as old and in decline.

I intend to drive like Mario Andretti well into my golden years.

I am planning on new adventures, accomplishments and reaching new goals.

We have paid a lifetime of dues. Wouldn’t it be silly not to keep enjoying our membership until we decide to quit the club?

Cleaning Experts Can Kiss My Glass

Cleaning Experts Can Kiss My Glass

So, the latest thing on Instagram and Reels is the abundance of cleaning experts or as they are called now, influencers.

There must be thousands of them talking about how to empty your refrigerator or make room under the sink for the millions of products you need.

Here’s one I love; take the stuff off the shelves of your refrigerator door that are spoiled or you aren’t using anymore.

Let’s examine this piece of sage advice.

I’ll try to simplfy this confusing element of cleaning expertise. On the refrigerator door there are shelves with bunches of bottles, cans and packs of food stuff. The expert never said the products were nonfood. In other words, beauty products, cold creams or dead raccoons.

So if one opens a jar of mustard and the top looks like a green fur coat, I’m guessing she’s advising you to throw it out.

Or if there is a jar of pickle relish from 1999 one might want to reexamine placing it back on a shelf. Wow I never would have thought of that. Genius. Has someone nominated this chick for the Nobel Prize yet?

One cleaning influencer had 291,546 likes showing her cleaning the shower with a brush.

Well slap my forehead and call me stupid. I always thought you were supposed to lick the dirt off the floor. Thank goodness I saw this and know I need a brush. I bet my shower will be much cleaner now.

How stupid are people? I can’t believe 291,546 people bothered to like this reel. I’m excited if 500 people read my blog.

Maybe I’m doing this all wrong. I should be including the obvious in every one of my blogs. Let’s see.

My advice for this post is when it’s twenty degrees below zero outside you should definitely wear a coat.

I’ll bet my readership triples by just offering genius tidbits like that one.

Or can you imagine how many people would read my blog if I actually wrote, if your hair is so dirty you can’t get a brush through, it’s time to wash it and probably shampoo twice.

I’d probably break the Internet with that piece of wisdom.

One expert had 857,302 likes on her post about using racks to dry clothes in the laundry room.

Well, that changed my life. I thought you just throw everything on the floor helter skelter and wait for it to dry. Wow, what a revelation.

I do have to admit I have seen some products on these posts I wasn’t aware existed, but I’m too lazy to buy them anyway so no matter. Here’s a great hint. Stop cluttering your house with cleaning crap you’ll eventually wind up throwing away.

I mean why don’t these influencers or experts or whatever they are offer important cleaning advice?

Like if if there’s so much mold on your tomatoes they’ve turned back to green, maybe you should toss them. 

Or after you get out of the shower and the floor is wet, step on a towel and move it across the floor carefully with one foot, Viola clean!

Or if you run out of room in the pantry throw away the stuff from ten years ago. I find that’s the best way to make more room.

Or if there are two packages of Oreos in the microwave, which I use for storage, I usually just finish shoveling in the one with the least cookies. Or if you don’t want to eat them, and of course that boggles the mind since I can’t imagine not wanting an Oreo, combine them into one bag.  Genius stuff, right?

Also, if you have Ready Whip cans on the refrigerator door and you’re not having pumpkin pie, just squirt it directly into your mouth and then throw away the can. There you go! More shelf room just like that. No muss, no fuss and yummy to boot.

Damn, I bet I’d get millions of likes on my cleaning and food tips.

Here’s one of my favorites: eat standing up and all the calories will drop right to your feet.

Did I not tell you I’m a natural. Forget the blog, I’m going to start giving out advice and I’ll become the number one influencer.

If a sponge has stuff crawling on it perhaps it’s time to replace it for a clean one. Sage advice indeed is it not?

Or to keep your floors clean after you walk through a construction site and your boots are caked with mud, take them off outside the house.

When I walk into someone’s home and everything is in perfect order, I get an attack of PTSD. This is because my mother wrapped her white kitchen cupboards in Saran Wrap every week to keep them clean.

Once a date came over, walked into the kitchen and asked, “Wow, did you just move in, the cupboards are still wrapped?”
“No,” I said. “My mother likes to keep them from getting dirty.”

Needless to say, I never saw him again.

So forgive me if a house that looks like no one lives there scares me a bit.

It seems to me that as far as all cleaning influencers are concerned baking soda, vinegar and some lemon juice can cure all life’s ills. silly me I thought it was chocolate.

I’ll leave you with one great piece of advice I learned the hard way. If your refrigerator smells like a cow died, your milk is probably spoiled.

So as all the influencers say, likes are appreciated and more great tips to come.